Epilogue

The world shrinks to nothing but the pounding of my heart and the slick, dewy grass beneath my cleats. I'm a lit fuse, all raw nerves and rebellion as the clock bleeds out seconds like it's got a personal vendetta. The scoreboard's glare is a taunt, the air thick with tension you could chew on.

Time's a bitch, ticking down like she's got a personal vendetta against me. The field's a blur of colors, bodies slamming into each other with the subtlety of a sledgehammer. My guys are marked tighter than the lid on Pandora's damn box. Sweat stings my eyes, but I wipe it away with a jerk of my head, sharp and quick.

"Blackwood!" Coach's voice is a distant roar in my ears. It's now or never. He doesn't need to say more; his eyes scream it clear enough—make it happen or we're done.

I roll my shoulders, feeling the familiar weight of expectation pressing down. It's a pressure I'm born to shoulder, my determination an unyielding force that not even gravity would dare defy. I scan the chaos before me, looking for any sign of opportunity, any glimmer of green against the blue expanse that signals an opening.

"Lincoln, move your ass!" Penn's shout cuts through the noise, and I spot him.

I drop back, scanning, searching for salvation in a sea of jerseys that swarm like flies to a carcass. Penn's locked down by a fucking mountain of a man. My jaw sets. Screw hopelessness. I'm not wired to surrender. Not in this game, not with Iris watching.

"Four-four-four! Your move!" I bark, our code for ‘do the impossible'.

I take a step back, feel the world slow as decision locks in. With a grunt that comes from somewhere deep, past muscle and bone, I hurl the ball toward the end zone. It's reckless, sure, but then again, so am I.

The pigskin spirals through the air, a bullet with Penn's name etched into it. Wind whistles past me, carrying whispers of doubt and second-guesses. But there's no room for that shit here. Not now.

Penn's eyes lock onto the incoming missile, and time's heart skips a beat. He's free from his blocker, a wild animal breaking from the gates. There's no stopping him; he's power incarnate, every fiber of his being strung tight with the need to seize victory from the jaws of defeat.

"Fly, you bastard," I mutter under my breath.

His legs pump, adrenaline his fuel, desire is his compass. The blocker is an obstacle, a mere footnote. Penn's smirk flickers as he jukes left—a trickster's dance, a feint that sends his shadow sprawling.

He leaps—a gravity-defying, heart-stopping moment where all that exists is the flight. His arm stretches, the line between success and failure measured by mere inches. Fingertips brush against leather, a tease that threatens to shatter my resolve.

"Come on, you son of a bitch," I murmur, more prayer than anything else.

He lands, two feet kissing the end zone like lovers reunited after war. The ball is cradled against his chest. The cheers fade, the only sound that matters is the thud of the ball secured against his ribs.

"Touchdown," I breathe, half-prayer, half-expletive. The taste of victory is sweet, spiked with the tang of sweat and imminent release.

"Fuck yeah!" I punch the air, victorious, invincible. My heart's hammering against my ribcage, every pulse screaming Iris' name. She's out there, waiting, watching. Lust and pride mingle in my veins, potent and sweet as sin. There's a violent silence before reality erupts, but I barely hear it. My gaze cuts through the pandemonium, seeking her.

The roar of the crowd hits me like a tidal wave, wild and relentless. The stadium is an electric beast, alive with the chaos of celebration, the scent of sweat and glory thick in the air.

I'm sprinting before I know it, muscles singing with adrenaline, every cell in my body wired for this moment. Penn's wide-eyed grin meets mine as we crash together, a collision of brothers. Our fists collide, a solid thump that resonates through me. The only one missing is Graham. Ever since that injury a few weeks back that's kept him off the field and in the physical therapy center, we haven't felt complete. He should be here with us.

"Did you see that?" Penn gasps out between breaths, his eyes alight with disbelief and elation.

"Couldn't miss it," I shoot back, the smirk finding its home on my lips without effort. Jeremiah joins our huddle.

"Damn right!" Jeremiah's voice booms, his arm slinging over our shoulders, pulling us in tight. "We did it, brothers!"

"More like I did it," I quip, the rebel in me refusing to let the moment pass without staking my claim.

"Team effort, Blackwood," Jeremiah reminds me, though his chuckle betrays his agreement with my arrogance.

"Fine, fine," I concede, rolling my eyes for effect. "But let's not forget who threw the ball."

"Only ‘cause I caught the damn thing!" Penn retorts, giving me a playful shove that nearly sends me stumbling.

"Details," I scoff, but my wide grin is all the admission they need. We break apart, still buzzing with the high of victory, the taste of it sweet and addictive on my tongue.

"Let's hear it, Spartans!" I shout, throwing my arms up, inciting the crowd further. They respond with a loud cheer, a wave of sound that crashes down on us, lifting us higher on its crest.

"Blackwood! Blackwood!" The chant builds, echoing my name, my brothers' name, a reverberation that vibrates through the ground and into my bones.

"Shit, I was made for this," I mutter under my breath, soaking in the adoration.

"Looks like it's not just the game I'm winning tonight," I muse to myself, feeling that coil of heat and desire stirring deep inside, laced with anticipation for the play yet to come.

The euphoria of victory is like a drug coursing through my veins as I scan the sea of faces, each one a blur except for her—my North Star in a constellation of chaos. Iris stands alone, firm against the swell of bodies, and she's wearing my jersey, "Blackwood" emblazoned across her back. My chest swells with pride and possessiveness; that jersey looks a hell of a lot better on her than it ever did on me.

"Damn," I breathe out. The sight of her lights a fire in my belly, warmer than the adrenaline still pumping through my system. She's a vision, all full lips and curves, wrapped up in my name. It's like she knows exactly what that does to me, how it makes my blood sizzle.

I don't walk over to her—I prowl, every step oozing confidence as our eyes lock, magnetic and charged. Her smirk matches mine, a silent challenge thrown down between us. I see you, her eyes say, and oh, I can't wait to answer that call.

"Look at you, quarterback." Her voice cuts through the noise around us, sharp and smooth as glass.

"Guess you're my lucky charm," I say, all cocky confidence.

"Or maybe you're just finally living up to my expectations," she shoots back.

Then, I'm there. Without breaking stride, I scoop her up, her body melding into mine. She wraps her legs around me, and goddamn if it isn't the most natural thing in the world.

"Easy there, QB," she teases, her breath hot against my ear. "Don't want to give the crowd too much of a show."

"Let them watch," I growl low, my voice barely above a whisper, the promise of later lingering in the air between us like sparks ready to ignite. "They'll never get as close as you are right now."

The helmet clatters to the ground, a hollow sound swallowed by the roar of the crowd. Sweat snakes down my temple, catching in the stubble along my jaw. I'm breathing hard, each exhale a mixture of relief and triumph, but all that fades to static as I lock eyes with Iris.

"Careful, angel," I tease, the smirk coming easy despite the weight of emotions pressing against my ribs, "You might just start a trend wearing me like that. Everyone is going to want a Blackwood jersey."

Her laughter is a spark in the night, quick and bright. She tilts her head, hair tumbling over one shoulder, the edges of my jersey brushing against her thighs in a whisper of temptation.

"Please, Blackwood," she snarks back, that familiar fire dancing in her green eyes, "There are four of you, five if you count Ram. You're just lucky enough to be the label on this one. The world has four others to choose from. This Blackwood…" She points to the number sixty-two, "This one is fucking mine."

"Possessive, much?" I arch an eyebrow, playing into our verbal sparring match. "Is that what we do now? You become just as fucking crazy as I do."

"Yea. It's only fair. What's a king without a queen, anyway?" Her mouth twists in playful challenge."

"Still a King." I answer sarcastically, pulling her closer until her breath mingles with mine.

"Despite your insufferable arrogance, Blackwood," she says, the corners of her mouth twitching upwards, "that was one hell of a throw."

Her words, laced with respect and something warmer, something like pride, hit me harder than any linebacker ever could. I let out a laugh, short and genuine, surprised by the raw note of appreciation in her voice for a game she barely tolerates.

"Only ‘insufferable'?" I reply, closing the distance between us until the heat of her breath is tangible against my skin. "I was aiming for something more."

"Keep dreaming," she shoots back, but the edge is gone from her tone.

I take a breath, feeling the weight of something monumental bubbling up inside me. The raucous cheers fade to a backdrop as I fix my eyes on hers, finding exactly what I'm looking for. Exactly what I need.

"Iris," I start, voice barely above a whisper, every syllable heavy with unspoken promises. "You wreck me, you know that? In the best goddamn way."

There's a beat of silence, where the world holds its breath, and I swear even the stars lean in closer. Her eyes search mine, looking for the lie, the punchline to a joke that never comes.

"Lincoln," she says, and her voice is a velvet touch against my name, "you took everything I hated about myself and used it against me and then gave me my power back. You gave me clarity. You gave me true power."

"Only for you." The words fall from my lips like a confession, a vow.

"Love, Iris... It's a hell of a thing. And I'm in it. With you. All the goddamn way."

The declaration hangs between us, raw and naked in its intensity. There's no taking it back, no hiding from the blaze in her eyes that reflects everything I feel but have never dared to say.

"You..," she says, and each word is laced with an edge, like it costs her something to let them fall. "You've got this... this gravity that I can't seem to resist. And damn you for making me admit it."

"Is that your way of saying you're stuck with me?" I tease, smirking despite the near painful beat of my heart against my ribs.

"Stuck? No." She leans in, her breath a tantalizing mix of mint and mischief against my lips. "Enthralled, maybe. Ensnared, even."

I can't help the growl that rumbles from deep within my chest. The words ignite something primal within me, something hungry and possessive. Her smirk matches my own, as if she knows exactly what she's doing to me.

"Ensnared, huh?" I pull her closer, until there's no space left between us. "Sounds serious. Maybe we should make it official."

She stiffens slightly, the playful light in her eyes flickering with caution. But then she looks at me dead-on, her expression daring me to continue.

"Maybe we should," she counters, her voice a challenging purr.

"Think about it," I say, my tone dipping into a lower register. "Iris Blackwood. Has a nice ring to it, don't you think?"

"Ring..." she echoes, her smirk blooming into a full-blown grin. "Is that a proposal, Lincoln Blackwood? Because if it is, you're going to have to do better than a post-game adrenaline rush."

"Who says I'm not serious?" My hand trails down her back, fingers playing at the hem of her shirt—my jersey—igniting a trail of desire. "And when have I ever done anything less than extraordinary for you?"

"True..." She tilts her head, considering it, her hair begging to be tangled in my fingers. "But marriage? That's... deep."

"You're not scared, are you, angel?" I say with a wink, pulling her in for a kiss that promises all kinds of intensity.

"Scared?" Her laugh rings out, genuine, and free. "Never. Just surprised you're ready to chain yourself to one woman, even if she is spectacularly amazing."

"Only you, Iris. Only ever you." The weight of my sincerity hangs heavy in the space between us. "So, what do you say? Go into senior year as my wife?"

Her eyes search mine, then, slowly, a smile creeps onto her lips—a smile that's all the answer I really need.

"Oh fuck yea! Ramsey and I just got ordained online so I'm definitely doing this wedding." I hear Penn yell from off to the side, and all I can do is shake my head. I really don't want to know why the fuck he got ordained, no doubt it's some kinky sex thing he's got going on.

Iris fucking Shelby.

No, Iris fucking Blackwood.

My goddamn wife.